


Let This Be Enough

by Snowstorminmychest



Category: Die Leiden des jungen Werthers | The Sorrows of Young Werther - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Genre: Albert displays empathy for once, Character Death Fix, Everybody Lives, Existential Crisis, Fix-It, Gen, Homeros | Homer (c. 8th Century BCE) References, Late Night Conversations, Mental Health Issues, Recovery, References to Depression, Saving Werther, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, There would have been so many opportunities to intervene, Werther didn't kill himself, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowstorminmychest/pseuds/Snowstorminmychest
Summary: “I came to talk to you,” Albert was saying. “I should have come a lot sooner, but I was too much of a coward to realise how much you’re suffering. But I’m here now. Werther, I’m here, and I’m asking you to wait and listen to me.”What if Lotte had told Albert everything that fateful night, before it was too late?
Kudos: 2





	Let This Be Enough

Young Werther put down his pen and gave a sigh. There was nothing left to say. He had arranged everything, written everything down, the letters laying spread out on the table. Farewell, Lotte! It was over. Having poured his heart out before Lotte and his friends, it felt as though the chagrin in his soul had died down for good. It’s going to be all right, he thought, smiling. There was only one thing left to do, the last thing, for everything to be fulfilled. Indeed, hadn’t everything been leading up to this? Wasn’t this the reason for his coming to Wahlheim, for getting to know and falling in love with Lotte? Even that kiss, the sole purpose of which was to lead him here, for him to be able to die knowing she loves him. And Albert, dear, kind-hearted Albert, who had absolutely no means to understand. Let them live: this can only be resolved one way. One of them has to die. And who else would it be?

Glancing at the clock, he saw it was almost midnight; perfect timing. He sent his servant to a faraway room so as not to be disturbed. There was only him now, him and his destiny, straightforward and clear like never before. Yes. He smiled again. It will all be over soon, there will be no more suffering, soon he may be liberated from this prison. And Albert shall play the role of his accomplice: he wanted him dead anyway, consciously or subconsciously, it doesn’t matter either way. And even Lotte, who cleaned the pistols with her own dear hands, endorsing his decision, giving her blessing. How could a man resist? He shook his head. This indecision, this indolence must end. He must act, he must take the control into his own hands, and it has never been simpler.

He grabbed one of the pistols laying on his desk, and pressed its muzzle to his forehead, above his right eye. Cold, so very cold! He was filled with a curious sense of contentment, as if he were right where he needed to be. He could hardly wait for the peace he so desired, the peace he had been denied in the last couple of hellish months, and that he knew he could never reach in his lifetime. The image of death appeared in his soul as an endless, leisurely walk in a tranquil meadow, a return to the embrace of nature, the same nature that had imparted on him so much wonder and contentment long ago, in a past unimaginably far away. To lie down, to collapse into the earth, the sky, the seasons, into oblivion... Only one thing didn’t quite fit into this inviting and tranquil picture. The metal of the pistol was much too cold against his skin, reminding him he was still alive, at least in the bodily sense. The core of his being, who he really was, his soul, had long before stopped clinging to life. Rather, he felt a longing for death like a deer longs for flowing streams. Still there was some rather cumbersome difficulty in this very simple move, that of pulling the river and being free. And for a moment, the thought even came to him that in that tenth of a second while he would still be able to feel it, it will be very painful. But he knew he needed to take this upon himself, if not for anything else, then for Lotte, so they can at least live happily, and for himself, because there is nothing else, and there never had been. He took a deep breath and felt how desperately his heart was throbbing. He examined his body with some contempt. It seemed to be clinging onto life, somewhat independent of himself, on some animal level. But are we not humans exactly because we possess the power to overcome our instincts? Go on, he said to himself. Almost over. One last deep breath. And...

In that moment he was startled by urgent knocking on his bedroom door. He berated himself for hesitating too long.

“Werther!” he heard Albert’s voice coming from the other side of the door. “Werther, please answer me, I know you’re in there!”

Too late, Werther thought bitterly. Too late, Albert. He could have paid attention to him on so many occasions, could have truly listened to how much he was suffering, could have stopped him so many times... he never did, although there was no way he could have. Albert’s relative wellbeing and stability, or perhaps his views on masculinity and flaws of character prevented him from ever understanding him. But Werther didn’t resent him for that. He was too far away from these types of matters – from everything, now. He tried to return to his task at hand, the only task. Pulling the trigger. However, he could hardly ignore the concern radiating from Albert’s voice. He found it a little funny. Yes, well, if it had occurred to him to be concerned weeks, months ago, maybe then something could have been done. But it’s surely better this way.

“I came to talk to you,” Albert was saying. “I should have come a lot sooner, but I was too much of a coward to realise how much you’re suffering. But I’m here now. Werther, I’m here, and I’m asking you to wait and listen to me.”

Werther was hearing the words coming through the door, and in some sense registered what Albert was trying to convey, but he felt an insurmountable distance separating him from the other man. He even concluded that he is expected to give some sort of reply, but the words and Albert were so distant, and it would have been so very difficult to do anything else than to pull the trigger, that he remained silent. He heard Albert trying to push the door open, unsuccessfully. Obviously, he couldn’t let anyone disturb him. He heard Albert swear, then sigh heavily.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said at last tentatively. “Lotte told me everything, and I came as fast as I could.”

Werther was shocked out of his stupor for a moment. If she had told him everything, then...

“She told me she was worried for your life, that you may... harm yourself. And... Werther, I’m so sorry for not taking you seriously, even though you told me, so many times, and I never listened. But I understand now, and I hope it isn’t too late. I cannot say I can imagine the pain you’re in, but at least I understand now, and I do believe your pain is so great you can’t take it any longer. I mean, you yourself had said that this was like a fever, like an insidious disease of which this is the natural conclusion, that it is logical and understandable for someone to kill themselves, but... as your friend, I cannot let you do that. Please open the door.”

For a second, Werther couldn’t understand what Albert was talking about. Surely he, Werther, had also thought about that other life where he didn’t carry out his plan in the end, apologised to both of them, tore himself from Wahlheim once again, found a decent job, continued regardless. But today had unequivocally proved that this future was non-existent. The question was, how could he explain this to Albert, how could he make him understand that it’s okay this way, in fact, it is much better than a future in which he would just have to wait until he withered away and died from unhappiness?

“I’m sorry, Albert,” Werther ventured, speaking with some difficulty. “It hardly matters now. Everything’s going to be fine soon.”

Albert looked down at his feet.

“To think your death would be a blessing upon your friends... it must be terrible to suffer this much. And to imagine the torment that brought you here... how you had to endure us never hearing your cries for help...

Albert was speaking slowly and deliberately, but it took a great deal of effort to keep his calm demeanour. With each sentence that was met with Werther’s silence, with each passing moment, he felt the distance between him and his friend grow, felt more and more helpless and desperate, and was slowly overcome with the feeling that all his attempts to help are doomed to fail. He thought about all this for a moment.

“Werther,” he said slowly, leaning his forehead against the door. Shutting his eyes tightly, he only paid attention to the darkness and the rough, hard texture of the wooden door pressing against his forehead for a moment. He took a deep breath, trying to overcome the paralyzing feeling of helplessness. Having wasted so much time on misunderstandings and petty mind games, he decided he might as well be completely honest now.

“Werther,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid you’re really going to go through with it. I never even wanted to consider the possibility of losing you, of someone being in so much pain that they see no other way out... but now, standing here on the other side of this door, I have to tell you how helpless I feel, and how afraid I am that I won’t be able to reach you, to stop you.

Werther felt a little disgusted. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was already past midnight. The otherworldly feeling of tranquillity surrounding him seemed to have been somehow soiled by Albert’s words. Somewhere far away in his mind, he knew that Albert had come because he didn’t want him to die, but supposed it wasn’t so much about him, Werther, and more about Albert wanting to still consider himself a good man after this. Had he not been so exhausted, he would have tried to explain to Albert that there was no need to make such a fuss about it, his death won’t change whether he’s a good man or not, and he should just leave him alone. Listening to Albert reminded him of some soirées where all he’d wanted to do was go home, but some boring distant acquaintance kept talking to him and it would have been incredibly impolite to take his leave. And time was passing, and he couldn’t go home.

“But still, still I would like you to stay alive,” Albert continued, shaking off the melancholy usually rather alien to him, and returning to the reason for his coming. “Surely you feel as though there’s nothing left for you other than death, but... you yourself have likened this state to an illness, and if it is so, then that makes it our responsibility to find a cure.”

So he _has_ been paying attention to what I’ve been saying, Werther realised, immediately adding “it hardly matters now” in his mind. This isn’t about what Albert would like. Not even about what _he_ would like, this is simply... reasonable, and has been the only reasonable choice for a long time. Nobody can make him reconsider. Lotte may have had a chance, if she hadn’t pushed him away – even though she might have suspected this also meant sealing his fate and marking his last day. But what better day to make the last one than the one when he could feel Lotte’s lips on his own for the first and last time?

Yes, perhaps he could not be more certain than right in this moment. The only distracting factor was Albert, not giving up, trying to offer his words from the other side of the door.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Albert was saying, “you don’t have to deal with this on your own anymore. Werther, if you open this door, if you let me in, I promise I will be by your side and help you as best I can to find a cure for this illness of yours.”

Somewhere far away, in the outside world, a soft breeze began to blow, the rustle of leaves filtering into the room. It sounded like the tranquil breathing of some enormous, sleeping beast.

“Albert,” Werther said wearily, his voice faint as though coming from underwater. “You needn’t worry. Everything will be all right, and you can go on living your lives with Lotte as though I’d never existed at all.”

It wasn’t an easy feeling to express – that not only were Albert’s efforts futile because in a little while he won’t be alive anymore, but rather that he’s as good as dead right at this moment, barely existing, and that suicide is nothing more than the formal ending to a process started long before.

To this, Albert reacted with a sound that could be taken for either laughter, a disbelieving snort or a sob.

“And how on Earth would everything turn out all right?” he asked, something from their old discussions creeping back into his voice, the ones where he had been downright outraged and incredulous that anyone would consider such a thing. “You think your suicide could be a solution to this situation between the three of us, or you might even think you must secure our happiness this way, but... Werther, that’s nonsense! The death of a friend cannot buy anyone happiness. We’d both be consumed by guilt for not being able to help you and we couldn’t ever live happily. And it’s not at all unlikely that Lotte would follow you in her grief. I’ve heard that suicides may cause somewhat of a contagion, leading others to kill themselves in a similar fashion. Imagine young men such as yourself learning about your predicament and deciding they need to die as well, even though they could have grown up and matured. Or if that’s not enough to move you, then let us stay with Lotte. Imagine her shooting herself in the head. Surely you don’t want that.”

Albert felt he might have gone too far, but he also knew he had to give everything. Had he dared to speak honestly with him sooner, had he not shrugged off his friend’s despair as some tasteless joke or unmanly folly, then maybe it wouldn’t have come to this… but now it has come to this, and Albert felt how constricted the world around them was, and found it frightening. He could only hope that, using only his awkward and unsure words, these imperfect devices, he may convey to Werther everything he wanted: that he’s not alone, and that the world isn’t as constricted, or at least it won’t always be as constricted, as it seems when looked at from that room; but he was losing his confidence. Previously, he’d been completely certain that Werther was going to give up these thoughts and go on to view this whole thing as nothing more than a moment of temporary insanity, simply forget the whole frightening episode with the pistols, and in time find his place in the world. But now the picture seemed to be somewhat different. It seemed as though what was bound to happen, even if not at this exact moment, was still unstoppable and inescapable, and he could almost feel it looming over him, over both of them, like a billowing, dismal cloud. And what then? He had meant what he said about Lotte probably not surviving, and then he wouldn’t either – or if he did, he’d be doomed to spend the rest of his days in the same dark fog that was now enveloping the young man on the other side of the door. He knew he was supposed to say something, that it was important to keep the communication up, even if Werther can only answer in half-words, but it was becoming harder and harder to overcome his own sense of weariness and helplessness. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just let matters run their own course? Is it even ethical to expect a man to stay alive when he desires death so eagerly? What sort of life would that be?

Albert sensed that these thoughts weren’t actually his, but rather Werther’s, whose despair and hopelessness had taken on such enormous proportions that they enveloped him as well. He made an attempt to imagine Werther different, older, more mature, calmer, but all in vain. The only image of Werther his mind could conjure up was of him lying on the floor of his room, in a slowly cooling, enormous pool of blood.

And Werther? He was dying, that was to be expected, but something had nevertheless changed. He couldn’t have expressed what it was, not even to himself – it felt simply as if some of that tremendous weight bearing down on him had returned, even though he’d hoped to be rid of it forever. But everything added to the weight now, everything outside the room: Albert on the other side of the door, with his words, and Lotte, not the one that lived in his memories, the one he had danced with and fallen in love with, but the one at home right now, in her room, scared to death waiting for news, any news. And with this overbearing weight came the feeling of being a prisoner, in his own life, his room, in his relationships, in his body. The endless dragging on of miserable days awaiting him were he to stay alive. The realisation immobilised him, the weight threatening to crush his ribs. This was partly why he didn’t move, not even when he heard Albert talking to his servant at the door, and then the noise of the key turning in the lock. At the periphery of his consciousness, he registered Albert talking to him, his voice calm and soft, but couldn’t make out what about. There was something about the whole of this that reminded him of the scene between him and Lotte not long ago, with its intensity and finality, with the feeling of helplessness and closeness and defeat.

When Albert finally, cautiously opened the door, no trace of that uncharacteristic, numbing fog remained looming over his thoughts. He couldn’t fathom how he could even have thought it better to leave Werther to be swallowed up by his melancholia. There was only him and his friend now. Werther had lost weight in the last couple of weeks, his face looked pale and weary, but he seemed to have dressed for the occasion. As Albert looked into his eyes, he saw in them exhaustion and defiance, and his friend, who he had come for. Of course, it didn’t escape his attention that Werther had turned to face him from his desk covered in letters written in his neat, elegant handwriting, and that he was, as of now, pointing his gun at him. Albert had less difficulty accepting this version than the one where he was pressing it to his own forehead, but still raised both his hands obediently.

“Werther,” he began softly, but the young man cut in.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Albert couldn’t help but smile with relief at finding his friend alive, and seeing him for what he was: someone suffering, someone needing help, and nothing else. He also had to realise again how young he really was – these dark, dark thoughts shouldn’t have belonged to someone only twenty-four years old. All he wanted to do was just run up to him and embrace him, but he remained respectfully still.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “I just want to talk. I came to do just that, and I want to thank you for paying attention to me. My plan is to pay attention to you from now on, and to find a way out of this together.”

“There isn’t one,” Werther said in a dull voice, and simply turned away from Albert. He dropped his hand to the desk, still clutching the pistol, and stared straight ahead, perhaps at his letters. “Now please go.”

“I can’t do that,” Albert said, taking a step towards him. “I know you believe this can only be over with one of us dying, and I also know you don’t want it to be Lotte or me, because you love us, and you think what you’re doing is for the best. But that just isn’t true. You wouldn’t rid us of the pain, you’d only take all possibility of peace from us. We love you.”

“But I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore,” Werther said quietly. The last sentence he couldn’t quite react to. He would have given anything to hear it, but not like this, not from Albert. This meant nothing. “Do you know how much I’m suffering, Albert? Each and every moment. I can’t bear it any longer.”

At this moment, a soft rain began to fall, and Albert imagined the cleansed, vast expanse of sky above them, filled with the smell of rain. For a moment, he listened to the patter of raindrops on the windows.

“If all future moments really were like this, I could accept your logic,” he said at last, taking another step towards Werther. “Only there’s no way to be sure. This, where you are right now, is the worst moment, the deepest point. Why can’t there be a time when you look back on this time, this horror, only to say “I’ve defeated it”? Because you’re up against a great enemy, Werther, an enemy that wants you to believe its lies. That the world would be better off without you, that the only option is death. But it’s lying, it’s lying to you, and you don’t have to listen.”

Werther was still, and Albert silently prayed that his words might reach him. The young man was silently, intently gazing at the pistol in his hand, and Albert felt again as though they were an insurmountable distance apart, even though he could have touched his friend’s blue-clad shoulder if he reached out his hand. Still he felt as though he were beating his fists on a thick glass wall between them, trying to get his attention, in vain.

“Werther, look at me!” he pleaded quietly.

Werther turned his face towards him slowly, as if each and every inch took inhumane strength. His gaze was uncomprehending and exhausted, but Albert still tried to hold onto it.

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “I’m here with you, and I’m staying here. And I want you to know how proud I am of you. Someday, you’re going to look on this whole thing, on having faced death, on surviving this dark night, as priceless experience. You must know that the very best artistic creations are born out of this struggle. You probably don’t see it now, but later, when you look back, you’re going to see how very brave you were, how much strength you needed to get through this.

Albert examined Werther’s face thoroughly. The young man was silent, but something appeared in his expression, only faintly visible under the layers of exhaustion and apathy, something Albert couldn’t quite name, something that hadn’t been there before. A crack in the wall?

“The only thing I’m going to ask you now is to give me the pistol,” Albert said calmly and firmly, holding his hand out. Werther gave him a bewildered look, his eyes darting to his extended hand then back to his face. The fierce battle waging in his soul was plainly visible.

“Werther, give it to me. Please.”

An eternity seemed to pass while Werther slowly, very slowly, as if having to fight for every inch, lowered the pistol and placed it in Albert’s hand. The metal handle had warmed, he had clutched it in his hand for so long. Albert immediately gave it to the servant to dispose of, or at least to remove it from Werther’s vicinity.

“Thank you,” Albert said warmly. “Thank you, thank you.”

And then there was nothing else to do but to lean down and pull his friend into his arms, to hold him tight. Werther’s frame felt fragile and limp against his own.

“Thank you,” he said again, then took a step back and suddenly pressed a kiss to his forehead, above his right eye.

On the afternoon of the day after the last day, Werther was lying in his bed, gazing at the slowly fading blue of the sky and the walls. His mind seemed to have been overcome by a sort of numb exhaustion, his thoughts felt sluggish, as if his mind was protecting him from having to think about how close he had come to the edge of the abyss. And it seemed to be rather effective at that: presently, he was unable to think about what he had gone through, and how it will never be like it was before he went through it. The events and emotions of yesterday were out of reach, except for a vague feeling of closeness and warmth, of not being left alone in the depths. But he felt much more distinctly his present exhaustion and the unreality of the ongoing day. He tried to cling onto the sound of Wilhelm’s voice, the hexameters flowing like waves against the shore, the lines that had brought him solace in another life. Wilhelm arrived in the morning, Werther’s servant announcing him happily when he returned to the room carrying a cup of coffee. Wilhelm had said that the hopelessness emanating from Werther’s letters worried him tremendously, and so he wanted to talk to him in person. But instead of talking, he ended up mostly listening, and trying to understand what had taken place in Werther’s soul in the last few months. It was much better than conversing in epistolary form, as it allowed Wilhelm to ask questions, and so made some details and nuances of the events much clearer than Werther could have made them by himself, locked in his own mind. It was liberating but also very taxing, and so when he had no energy left to spare, Wilhelm read him Homer.

Albert also came, first thing in the morning. Last night, he had insisted on Werther spending the night with them, but he vehemently refused and pleaded with him to go back to Lotte, where he was supposed to be. Albert argued with him for a time about where exactly he was supposed to be, but left at last, taking his pistols with him and leaving Werther in his servant’s care and making them promise to call him if anything was wrong. And in the morning, he seemed genuinely happy that Werther was alive, which he himself couldn’t quite place – he was much too preoccupied with how much pointless inconvenience and worry he had caused Albert, and was plagued by enormous guilt. When trying to explain this to him, and saying sorry to him very many times in the process, Albert only smiled and said that his suicide would have been much greater a burden, and the only thing that matters is that he’s alive. This seemed very important indeed to everyone except Werther himself, who, having lost his otherworldly tranquillity, simply felt gutted, broken and incredulous, and couldn’t at all imagine the future of which Albert, Wilhelm and his mother seemed to speak so enthusiastically. And not only enthusiastically, but as though it actually existed: about opportunities for employment, travel, exhibitions, artistic endeavours, all these meaning nothing to Werther. Wilhelm said it was all right, the present would do for now, and adjusting the flowers the children had gathered for him, continued on with Homer.

**Author's Note:**

> When writing this, I relied heavily on [this article](https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/dc64/85756a90fa789649ab5c4fb36470ca5d2f9f.pdf?_ga=2.11283446.376471063.1614446765-977095496.1614446765) about mental health first-aid in suicidal crises, to give Albert the best chance of connecting with Werther and helping him see the situation from a different perspective. 
> 
> The title is taken from The Magic Flute, a line spoken by the boys after [Papageno's "suicide aria"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZo0klTdVGg) towards the end of the second act (Halt ein, o Papageno! und sei klug, Man lebt nur einmal, dies sei dir genug!)  
> This is relevant to Werther because of the phenomenon known as the "Papageno effect", a counterpart to the Werther effect - which is used to describe the suicide contagion that may ensue with sensational media coverage of celebrity suicides, or a fictional one, such as Werther's. The Papageno effect is the name given to the finding that media portrayal of people going through and surviving suicidal crises, and finding healthy coping strategies and alternatives to suicide, seems to have a protective effect.  
> .


End file.
